


Now Let Me Go

by drownedinblissfulconfusion (tundraeternal)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: End!verse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tundraeternal/pseuds/drownedinblissfulconfusion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which everything is broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now Let Me Go

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece to [Human, Now](http://archiveofourown.org/works/893343), but each piece can stand alone.

Castiel kisses Dean.

He does it because he’s sad and lost and alone, his brothers have left, and his power is fading, and he wants to learn to feel the way a human would. He does it because he can’t stand the pain in Dean’s eyes, and thinks, hopes, that even without his mojo, maybe he has the ability to heal it. 

Everyone is reaching for each other, these days. With every street outside harboring the shadows of demons and croats, with death over everything like a slick of oil you can’t wash off, people turn to one another to seek affirmation of their own humanity. There’s a reason raiding parties are nearly as excited to discover condoms as they are toilet paper. 

It’s because this is the end, and there’s no reason anymore to be coy. Castiel decides he might as well join the pleasure-seeking masses and go after what he wants, what he’s always wanted; the only thing that means anything to him anymore. Maybe it will be good for both of them.

So he corners Dean, in the munitions shed, as he checks their supply levels. Ignores the casual greeting Dean gives. Strides towards him, takes his chin in hand, and pushes into his space, pressing lips to lips, greedy. 

And for an instant, a millisecond, Cas can tell that Dean is about to kiss back. His mouth opens, just a hair, enough that Cas knows he isn’t frozen; that he’s present, in the moment. And then it all goes to hell. Dean stumbles back, tearing away from Castiel’s grip. His eyes bore into Cas’s, furious, accusing. And he storms out. 

Cas sits down on a crate, presses his fingers to his temples. That could have gone better. 

\---

The next morning finds Cas in the mess tent, watching as the sleet falls outside, trying not to burn his tongue on a cup of instant coffee. 

Dean enters and heads for the serving tables in the back. 

“Good morning,” gravels Castiel, as he nears. 

There is no reply or acknowledgement, only the whisper of fabric as Dean brushes by, not quite close enough to touch.

\---

Chuck finds him the next day, in his cabin practicing mediation. Trying to, anyway. His mind won’t empty. He doesn’t have the discipline he had as an angel. His brain is disobedient now, unruly and restive and crowded with things he’d rather not think about, but he can’t seem to wipe clear. The sting of the papercut on his left ring finger. The uncomfortable press of the hard floor against his ankles. The coldness in Dean’s eyes as they slid over him this morning. Hunger, and nausea, and anxiety, which pulse a red and orange pattern across his mind when he shuts his eyes. So he leaves his eyes open and stares at the rough wood wall opposite him. And shifts his gaze to the door when Chuck walks in. 

“Cas, uh, Castiel. Can I talk to you for a minute?” he hovers in the doorway, holding his clipboard like a life raft.

“Of course. My door is always open to those who wish to speak with me.” He waves a hand vaguely across the floor in front of him, inviting Chuck to sit down. 

“I know you and Dean are close.” He takes a deep breath. “Is he alright? He, ah, he’s gearing up for a recon mission, and he looks a little scarier than usual, you know what I mean?”

Cas’s heart clenches. It always does when Dean leaves the safety of the compound, now that he has no one to watch his back. Of course he’s got his little band of makeshift soldiers with him. But what can they do against the hordes of evil that lurk outside? Nothing. No more than a fallen angel could, nowadays. So Castiel will have to wait, black fear lacing its razor tendrils through his anatomy, until Dean comes home. Or, likely one day, fails to. 

_Please don’t let it be today,_ Castiel prays to no one. _Please don’t let what I did make him reckless._

“I don’t know what’s the matter with him,” he lies frighteningly smoothly to Chuck. “I’ll have a word with him when he comes home.” He tries to smile reassurance. But he can feel that his smile is hollow. Chuck nods shortly and departs. 

Cas allows the smile to slide away. He should have known. Should have known that trying to force an emotion on Dean would only backfire. Cas can sympathize, really. Emotions are horrible, sloppy things. 

\---

Dean returns, safe, with a few crates of canned goods and a few more notches in his knife. He still counts, Cas knows. Not croats, there are too many of them. But with demons it’s personal. Cas nods a greeting as he helps to unload the jeep. Dean nods back, jaw tight. Not much, but it’s a start. Castiel briefly allows himself the luxury of hope. 

Dean comes to see him in his cabin that night. He looks tired. But, he always does, these days. 

“We made contact today with a group of survivors down near the border,” Dean announces, no preamble. “We’re gonna bring ‘em in. Need you to help debrief them, and start training knife fighting techniques.”

Cas nods. These are about the extent of his useful skills, and he’s happy to do his part. But he misses the days when Dean used to reward his contributions with friendship. 

“They’ll be here in about a week, maybe two. I’ll let you know.” He turns to go. 

“Wait,” his hand is on Dean’s shoulder before he can reason out whether it’s a good idea. “Would you like a beer? We could talk?” 

Dean doesn’t even turn around. “I don’t have time for this. I have a camp to run.” And he’s gone. 

That night marks the first time that Castiel drinks until he passes out. It isn’t the last.

\---

He spends about a week sober, with his life steadily crumbling around him. Dean avoids him almost completely now, sending messages through Chuck or Martin or Allie. Cas waits. He’s patient. Dean will come around again. They’re connected. They have a bond. 

After a week, he’s not so sure. Bonds can be strained, broken. Connections cut. Dean isn’t the man he was, before. Maybe this new man doesn’t need Castiel after all. He laughs alone, bitterly, sitting on his bed with a fifth of whiskey. He pulled Dean from hell, and now Dean is the one throwing him back in. 

The new refugees are due to arrive tomorrow. Cas should be preparing, requisitioning knives for their training. He takes another pull from the bottle, marvels at how little is left of it. Good metaphor for himself. From command of a garrison of angels, to training a motley band of half-starved refugees to wield a knife. Nothing left of Castiel, Angel of the Lord. 

He nearly falls off the bed when he sees Dean standing in his doorway. His mouth is twisted down, disgust or contempt at the sight of Cas. 

“I should’ve gone. With the rest of them.” Cas speaks into his bottle, ashamed to raise his head.

“Why didn’t you?” Dean asks, and his voice is clear of inflection. 

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to. Especially when it’s an answer you don’t want to face.”

“God you’re an ugly drunk.” He crosses to Castiel’s desk and picks up a bottle of water and tosses it onto the bed. “Here, drink this. I need you functional in the morning.”

“You need me!” This strikes Cas as grimly hilarious. “You need me functional. That’s a joke. What the hell for, Dean Winchester? What good am I to you anymore? Don’t tell me you need me. Don’t lie to me. You don’t need me. You don’t even want me.” 

“Cas, I cannot have this conversation with you.” They’re looking at each other again. At least that’s something. That’s better than the cold nothing Cas has gotten all week. 

“Why not?” He knows he shouldn’t push, but he can’t help it, he wants this so badly. “Are you afraid you’ll admit something you’ll regret? I have an idea. Admit it, and then _don’t_ regret it. See? Perfectly easy.” 

“You don’t understand!” Dean shouts, and Castiel basks in his anger. Thanks an absent god for the proof that he can still evoke Dean’s emotions. 

“Of course I understand!” He thrills with his own fury. This is better than drinking. “I have been with you every step of this damned road, and I have stood by your side. And now I have nothing left, Dean. _Nothing_! Only you. And you ask me not to want that either? Well, screw you! I’m sorry I can’t grant all your wishes anymore! I’m only human, after all.” He tries to laugh, but he knows it’s a sneer. 

“Cas, you listen to me.” Dean is deadly calm now, quiet. “Everything that’s wrong out there? That is my fault. Mine, and your stupid asshole brothers, wanting to end the world. So, I’m sorry if I don’t have time for your feelings.” He’s in Cas’s face, finger against his chest, and all Cas can do is try to block his words and savor his nearness. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t need you. I need to find the Colt, and I need to kill that sonuvabitch Lucifer, and that is _it_. And you can either help me, or you can get the hell out of my camp.”

Cas shuts his eyes, the liquor rebelling unpleasantly in his stomach. When he opens them again, Dean is in the doorway. 

“I never once asked you to stay. You’re not putting that on me.” As a parting shot, it’s effective. Cas hurls the liquor bottle against the wall and feels himself start to cry as he watches the rivulets of alcohol run down the wood to pool among the shattered glass. Dean was right; he is an ugly drunk.

\---

Castiel takes to walking the perimeter of the camp, late at night. He spends the evenings in his tent, drinking until the room slants sideways. He waits for Dean to come, to tell him that what he’s doing is wrong, that Cas is better than this. He drinks, and he waits, and he drinks until he can’t remember what he’s waiting for, and it no longer matters that it will never happen. And then he walks. He finds that he’s learning to empty his mind after all, though perhaps not in a healthy, meditative way. He focuses on the twists of wire that make up the chain link fence. Such a neat, efficient pattern; he finds it soothing to follow each line from the ground to the top where it meets the curls of barbed wire. His life used to be like this. Straight and orderly and purposeful. Now he crunches aimlessly through the snow that’s drifted along the edges of the fence, counting his footsteps to keep himself from feeling the cold. 

Their medic, Lena, finds him on one of these walks and leads him into her tent. Tells him to get inside before he ends up killing himself. When he asks if she’ll fix him a drink, she introduces him to other ways to numb his pain. He learns that there are things that make him float into oblivion instead of sinking. It’s so much better this way, he thinks. He doesn’t come back down for a long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vfI0aCCHug)


End file.
